


penance

by Jothowrote



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8x17 response, M/M, Spoilers, major character death but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jothowrote/pseuds/Jothowrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Naomi first shows him the large, empty room and hands him an angel blade, Castiel isn’t sure what she means for him to do. The dread and anxiety sits heavy in his grace, thick and dark, even as his fingers curl easily around the cold, metal handle of the blade.</p>
<p>‘You need to redeem yourself, Castiel,’ she says, her voice soft but commanding, her eyes as cold as space.</p>
<p>‘I…’ is all he manages, his fingers clenching and unclenching reflexively. ‘This is my penance?’</p>
            </blockquote>





	penance

**Author's Note:**

> a short response to the first scene in 8x17. This scene really struck me and was one hell of an episode opening, so I ended up writing this at two in the morning. It's another experiment with present tense, something I love but am unfortunately not very good at keeping up consistently.

When Naomi first shows him the large, empty room and hands him an angel blade, Castiel isn’t sure what she means for him to do. The dread and anxiety sits heavy in his grace, thick and dark, even as his fingers curl easily around the cold, metal handle of the blade.

‘You need to redeem yourself, Castiel,’ she says, her voice soft but commanding, her eyes as cold as space.

‘I…’ is all he manages, his fingers clenching and unclenching reflexively. ‘This is my penance?’

‘You need to be fixed. You were corrupted when those humans first dug their fingers into your grace – you must purge them from your system.’

Castiel shudders. He wants Dean and Sam to have nothing to do with Heaven or Hell, not anymore. They’d been battered and bruised in fights that weren’t their own for years, and they deserved peace. Peace that Castiel knew he, himself, would never feel. 

‘Castiel?’

‘Yes… yes, I know,’ he stutters, hefting the blade in his fist. 

‘You are weak, and the only way to save yourself is to amputate the weakness.’

Castiel blinks and Dean is standing in front of him, a wary look on his tired, drawn face and a gun clutched in both hands.

‘Cas,’ he says, forcing the word through gritted teeth. ‘Where am I? What’s going on?’

Naomi smiles when Castiel shoots her a horrified look.

‘He’s not the real one, Castiel,’ she reassures him, but her smile is cold to match her eyes now. ‘But I want you to show your allegiance to Heaven. Kill him, quickly and without hesitation.’

Castiel swallows, his eyes flicking between his oppressor and Dean’s doppelganger. Not-Dean stares at him, his eyes moving to the angel blade still in Castiel’s hand.

‘Now, Castiel,’ Naomi orders, and Cas’ feet propel him forwards automatically. Dean (not Dean, not Dean) backs away, raises the gun.

‘Cas… what are you doing?’ he asks, voice gruff and eyes narrowed. ‘Stop it, Cas. Stop… don’t come near me.’

Castiel advances, motivated by a force outside of his control, his hand raising the blade even as the other tears the gun from Dean’s hands and throws it aside.

‘Dean…’ he chokes out, even as Naomi manipulates his body like a master puppeteer, pulling his hand back before thrusting forwards.

The blade parts Dean’s skin and bone like a knife through butter, and Dean falls as his face grows slack. Castiel staggers away from the body, his throat convulsing, heat and nausea building up in his ears until all he can see is a indistinct darkness and hot tears are streaming down his face.

It takes a while for him to gain control again, and when he finally manages to open his eyes, Dean is still dead on the floor and Naomi is still smiling, sickly sweet.

‘The first time is always the hardest,’ she coos, bending over his cowering form and brushing a cool hand over his fevered brow. ‘ I aided you as much as I could. From now on, though, you must go alone until you can kill without hesitation.’

Castiel staggers to his feet, and another blade appears in his hand. He uncurls his fingers, trying to drop the blade, but it sticks to his palm like glue and he cannot shake it off.

‘It is your penance, Castiel,’ Naomi reminds him, as another Dean stands in front of him, eyes wide and scared.

Naomi was wrong. The second was the hardest. The second Dean dies with fear in his eyes as he begs Castiel to stop, and Castiel knows this time that his limbs were under his own control.

Castiel keeps a mantra in his head as he murders his way through an army of Deans – not real, not real, not real – and it keeps him going but does not stop him from hesitating. It doesn’t take much, really. Dean just has to catch him off-guard with a word, or a look, and Castiel’s resolve crumbles like a house built on sand. Naomi has to help him more often than not.

He hesitates when one Dean catches his eyes in a deep, pleading stare; another utters ‘Cas, please,’ with such heart-breaking pain that Cas cannot bring himself to deliver the final blow. One fights back and manages to wrest the blade from his hand, and attempts to stab Castiel in the chest. Cas does nothing to stop him, but Dean vanishes into wisps of smoke and the blade clatters to the floor.

The blade refuses to leave his hand after that.

Some Deans submit like a lamb to the slaughter, bending their necks in a sign of trust. Those are the hardest.

Castiel only collapses once more, when Dean is so close his breath is hot on Cas’ face, and their lips brush even as the blade slides between his ribs. Castiel tastes Dean’s blood in his mouth and breathes his last breath with him as he crumples. Cas holds this Dean’s body for a while, rocking slowly on the floor, eyes bright and hot with unshed tears.

For the others he ploughs through, still with the mantra circling in his mind – not real, not real, not real not real notreal – as he goes, until the pain numbs everything to a burning heat that reaches from the tips of his toes to the pads of his fingers. He slices and kicks and punches and stabs, refusing to let himself see, to let himself feel. Still, he hesitates before the death blow.

The Deans get angrier as time goes by. They get more scared, more reckless, more violent. Castiel’s trench coat becomes riddled with holes. Cas almost prefers it when Dean goes down fighting. It burns less than when he submits to his fate with dipped eyes and a bowed head. Cas wants Dean to fight, if –when ¬– this nightmare becomes a reality. He wants Dean to kill him first.

But each time, Castiel wins.

Cas feels the moment when the burning breaks something deep inside of him. Naomi does too, as she smiles surprisingly brightly when he meets her eyes.

‘Try again, Castiel.’

This time, he does not hesitate.

Around him, the floor is littered with bodies.

‘You are ready,’ Naomi says, but Castiel hears her as though from a great distance.

He supposes he would feel relieved, if he could feel anymore.


End file.
